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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062798">Is Anyone There?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx'>rosy_cheekx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Coffee, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Paranoia, Prompt Fill, Sleep Deprivation, asleep in the archive, i have no excuse for this really</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:28:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,138</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon wasn’t sure if he had turned the tape recorder off or if he had just run out of tape-did they even run out of tape? They never seemed to. On investigation, the faint snuffling sounds he heard when he played the tape back proved he had forgotten to tur-</p><p>Wait. What was that?</p><p>Was someone in his archives?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood &amp; Sasha James &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Is Anyone There?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/gifts">voiceless_terror</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A prompt fill for my friend for their birthday!! it was originally, “It’s cute that you tried to protect me and all, but you’re like a foot shorter than me, you know?” but things got away from me a bit...</p><p>Lmk if you caught the change, haha!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim was exhausted. He’d been up late the night before pouring through books on historic architecture, trying to find anything referencing Robert Smirke and his…<em>unique</em> building practices. While he wasn’t usually the one to take work home with him, this statement Jon had recorded, one about Leitner and Gerard Keay and the tunnels underneath the Pall Mall struck a chord with him. It felt just wrong enough to be related to Smirke. So he had been up at all hours, researching Smirke and any associations he may have had with Pall Mall. He had been successful, at the end of it, but had fallen asleep near five and gotten barely four hours of sleep before he was dragged to wretched consciousness again by the sun streaming through his window.</p><p>Normally, Tim would grab a coffee on the way to work, but honestly he was nearing a little too close to hand-to-mouth living as it was, especially with their paychecks not being due til next Friday. There was a coffee maker in the Archives breakroom, sputtering as it was. Coffee was coffee and coffee was what Tim needed. It was half eight, a little earlier than most of his crisp, just-late-enough-to-piss-Elias-off-but-not-enough-to-get-called-out-for-it 10:15 arrivals, but it didn’t matter. If he was lucky, no one else would be there.</p><p>-</p><p>Jon was in the Archives. <em>When wasn’t Jon in the Archives?</em> <strike>They were <em>his</em> Archives after all.</strike></p><p>Jon blinked and peeled his cheek from the cool metal of his desk, wincing at the ghostly impression left from the heat and oils of his skin. His neck and spine protested in clicks and pops as he straightened himself up, wincing at the angle he had allowed himself to sleep in for so long. It was just after nine, according to the ever-ticking clock above the door to his office, the only door, the door he left propped open unless he was <em>certain</em> he was the only one there. (No one needed to come knocking for him.) He wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep but it had definitely been past midnight, after even Elias had left his office and the hum of The Institute faded to a strangely comfortable silence, nothing but Jon and his files and statements. <em>Just one more statement,</em> he had thought to himself, wearily regarding the ever-growing stack of “To-Do” files in the box on his desk. <em>One more and then I can go home and rest. <strike>One more now is one less Elias can ask after, the acknowledgement of Jon’s failure in his voice.</strike></em> Jon wasn’t sure if he had turned the tape recorder off or if he had just run out of tape-did they even run out of tape? They never seemed to. On investigation, the faint snuffling sounds he heard when he played the tape back proved he had forgotten to tur-</p><p>
  <em>Wait. What was that?</em>
</p><p>Jon frowned and rewound the tape a few minutes, listening intently. There was the unmistakable sound of footsteps, faint but definitely there. <em>Was someone in his archives?</em> Jon pursed his lips and glanced again at the clock. Just after nine, even Sasha wouldn’t be here yet, the punctuality of her 9:25 arrival something you could set a clock to.</p><p>Jon glanced around, not really sure what it was he was looking for. Something to defend himself, maybe? He wasn’t sure when he’d decided to identify the source of the sound, but something in his gut had shifted. He settled on grabbing a crutch resting in the corner of his office, abandoned from his recovery after the Prentiss attack.</p><p>Armed, Jonathan Sims crept to the door of his office. The automatic lights in the hallway flickered on as he slowly peered down both sides of the hallway, curly hair a mess and swinging unhelpfully by his cheeks. <em>No one.</em> The hallway was empty, no shadows to be seen sweeping menacingly around the corner.</p><p>God. He was probably being stupid. It was probably the statements getting to him. <em>But still</em>, something urged the back of his mind. He couldn’t shake the notion he wasn’t alone in the cold, lonely basement.</p><p>Cautiously, Jon crept down the hall, holding the crutch first by the handle, then clumsily turning it over to hold it by the base towards the ground. He didn’t make a habit of watching American baseball, but he imagined he looked rather like the players at bat, the rest of the crutch resting on his shoulder, elbows cocked uncertainly.</p><p>“Sasha? Martin? Tim?” His voice was somewhere between a croak and a shout, halfway between cowardice and curiosity. No answer, not that he really expected one.</p><p>Jon listened intently as he reached the bullpen of the archives, where Tim, Sasha, and Martin’s desks were arranged. It took him a moment to register what was bothering him about the room before he realized it with a start: the lights were on. These were also automatic; Jon knew this from the number of times Tim, Sash, and Martin had burst into laughter and cacophonies of “no!” and “guess we’re done!” whenever they sat still too long, engrossed in their work. Jon had privately wondered if it had been set up to <em>keep</em> them from being productive.</p><p>But the lights were on. That meant someone had been through here. And recently. Jon was paralyzed for a moment, wondering what he should do. Call 999? Or Elias? If it was supern—<em>strange</em>, police wouldn’t be able to do much anyways. Furthermore, if he was imagining things, he would never here the end of it from Elias. What if he asked him to step down from the position? <em>No, Jon could handle this.</em> Of course he could. Whatever it was, he needed to see what was happening and could make a decision from there.</p><p>He heard a shuffle from the break room, a scuff of shoe on the worn lino. A thief who just decided to stop for a cuppa and sandwich? <em>Well, the breakroom was next to the records room…what if it was a thing here to steal a statement? A thing like Jane Prentiss, or-or a vampire, or, god forbid, Michael?</em></p><p>Jon felt woozy with fear and nervous energy as he crept forward blindly, twisting the crutch in his hands as he approached the open doorway to the breakroom, the light to which was off. This bulb wasn’t auto, unfortunately. As Jon stood in the doorway, he let his eyes adjust the darkness of the small room, blinking nervously and sweeping the room with his eyes desperately, looking for a clue.</p><p>
  <em>There.</em>
</p><p>A darker blackness in the black, making up a vaguely humanoid shape, standing motionless by the cupboards. Jon tried to speak, to address it, but his voice was barely a whisper, caught in his throat.</p><p>“W-Who are you?” No answer. Jon could’ve sworn it shifted towards him, the thing that looked like a head bobbing slightly.</p><p>It would take maybe six steps to get there. The light switch was by the fridge, at the other end of the room. Was it worth it? Jon could probably run and flip the switch but the creature would definitely know he was there. Maybe it was better to just run.</p><p>Jon was suddenly struck with a terrifying thought as the creature seemed to shift again, shuddering to itself. What if it <em>was </em>Jane Prentiss, lying in wait for Martin any one of them to come back?</p><p>He had to attack. Jon steeled himself, tightening his grip on the crutch.</p><p>
  <em>Three.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Two.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One.</em>
</p><p>“Gahhhhhhhh!” Jon ran forward, swinging his makeshift weapon towards the creature. He watched the shape in the darkness shifted and seemed to compress and duck out of the way of his swinging, in slow motion but all at once. His crutch struck the countertop, and Jon vaguely registered a shattering as something hit the ground</p><p>
  <em>“Jon!”</em>
</p><p>“…T-Tim?”</p><p>The shadow in the darkness shrunk and Jon blinked at the sudden brightness as the light came on, finally recognizing the <em>creature</em> as Tim, eyes wide as he surveyed his boss in front of him, hair mussed from sleep and wielding a crutch like a cricket bat.</p><p>“Jon, what the hell?” Tim’s voice was somewhere at the intersection of confusion, anger, and dazed humor, hard to pin down. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Me? What are <em>you</em>—It’s nine in the morning! How did you get in?” Jon felt all the adrenaline leave his body at once, and he dropped the crutch to the Formica counter he seemed to have chipped, shoulders sagging.</p><p>“I-coffee!” Tim gestured to the shattered ruins of a Derwent Water mug, an orange kayak in two distinct pieces as a coffee spread across the tiles slowly. Jon’s face must have shown the incredulity he was feeling, because Tim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I couldn’t sleep, figured I’d be more use here. Didn’t feel like making a Costa run. That’s second to the real question, though, which would be: <em>Why</em> <em>are you trying to kill me?</em>”</p><p>Jon scrubbed his hands over his face; of <em>course</em> it was just Tim. He had been so <em>terrified</em> and it was just Timothy fucking Stoker. “I-I’m sorry, Tim. I heard something on my tape, and I thought there was someone in here…a-and there was. But I mean, someone who wasn’t supposed to be here. I-I <em>did</em> call out, b-but no one answered.” Jon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought maybe you were a vampire. Or Michael. Or Jane Prentiss,” he admitted after a moment, voice quieter.</p><p>Two beats of silence, three, before Tim’s raucous, barking laughter finally broke the silence.</p><p>“Were you going to kill a vampire with a <em>walking crutch</em>?” Tim managed between chuckles, doubling over. “Just-” he makes a sweeping motion with closed fists over each other, “with a bat, like-<em>like a piñata</em>?” He was taken over by giggles again and Jon was left staring blankly, trying valiantly to figure out what was so funny.</p><p>“I-I dunno, maybe? I didn’t want to just do nothing.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t be laughing, it’s-” Tim straightens and gestures at Jon, composing himself. “It’s cute that you tried to attack me and all, but you’re like a foot shorter than me, you know? You’re not exactly physically menacing.”</p><p>Jon stared. “I wasn’t trying to be menacing, I was trying-<em>shit</em>.” He felt warm liquid seeping into his socks-<em>how did he just realize he wasn’t wearing shoes-</em> and stumbled back, grabbing for the paper towels on the table. “I was trying to save my own ass. And I’m not that short.” Another snort from Tim, acknowledging and rejecting his argument. “Sorry about your mug,” Jon continued, dropping to a squat to sweep up the milky coffee and ceramic in a bundle of sopping paper.</p><p>“Meh, worth it,” Tim shrugged, dropping next to him and spooling towel into his own hands. “Yep,” popped the p. “The image of you baring your teeth at me like a wild dog is totally worth it. Besides, now I have an excuse to ask Sash to buy me a coffee from the posh place near her flat.”</p><p>“Oh, no, please. I should buy you something from the Costa down the street. I-! need to get some anyways.” Jon glanced over his shoulder at the doorway to the now unlit bullpen, trying to pretend he didn’t obviously look like he slept here.</p><p>“Yeah, no, you look like shit. No offense,” Tim added absentmindedly, pretending not to acknowledge the fact that Jon did not, in fact, drink coffee. “Did you sleep here again?”</p><p>
  <em>Silence as Jon gathered the coffee-soaked towels in his hands and rose, tossing them in the bin by the door.</em>
</p><p>“I’ll take that as a yes.”</p><p>“I wasn’t trying to. I just nodded off. I was recording statements and lost track of time.”</p><p>“Ohh, so you heard me come in?”</p><p>“Kind of. Heard it on the tape—”</p><p>“Hello?” Martin’s voice called out as the bullpen lights flicked on. “Oh, hey Tim, Jon! You two alright?”</p><p>“Heya, Marto. Jon and I were just about to hit up the café. Want something?”</p><p>
  <em>Tim got a caramel latte. Jon got a chai. Martin and Sasha got muffins, a very good story, and a lightly blushing (and smiling, though he would deny it) Archivist.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tim was grateful to Jon for never asking why he had stood so long, in silence and dark, staring at his cup of coffee as if it wasn’t even there. He never asked why his shoulders had been heaving and why his eyes were as baggy as they were. Jon did offer more often, though, to get coffee with him, in the odd mornings that they were both there absurdly early and battling their own demons. Tim always said yes.</em>
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